| |
Suffering
of an Idiot
By
Steven Hoadley
I
ran out of smokes two hours ago.
Now I'm pounding down butts
hoping the little bullets of death
will give birth to a writer
like the one that once sat
in my chair.
The only thing I can think to write about,
just got pissed and left.
'You sit in front of a computer too much,'
she said.
Writing about what a loser I was
and what a loser I still hope to be.
"I lived in hell for my art,"
I told her.
"Art?" she said.
"You call stories about
drunks,
junkies,
and child molesters,
art?"
"Someone once told me it was." I replied.
"THEY LIED!"
With that, she took her
hair dryer and brushes,
her sex, her tantrums, her morning smell,
and stormed out.
The echo of her departing scream
still fills the room.
I miss her already.
Copyright © 2002 Steven Hoadley
|